


Origin Myth for Monsters

by what_alchemy



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Other, Red Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6501781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/pseuds/what_alchemy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Widow Designation 01-425 will do anything to secure her place in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin Myth for Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [MCU Flash Meme](http://mcuflashmeme.dreamwidth.org/8160.html).

Widow Designation 01-425 wonders when time turned on her.

She leans toward the mirror. She turns her head to the right, pulls back the skin at the corner of her eye. She turns to the left and does the same with the other. Crow’s feet, they call these in English. A queer little colloquialism, marrying disdain for age with superstition against corvids. An apt appellation, regardless. Widow Designation 01-425 cannot argue with it as the grooves radiating outward like talons in her skin disappear under her ministrations. Reappear when she takes her fingers away. 

Red lipstick is no longer the vogue, but she produces a stick of it anyway and slashes it across her mouth. She remembers the last time she saw Peggy Carter—regal at Kennedy’s funeral—and thinks some things simply do not go out of style. Behind her, the Winter Soldier emerges from the restroom and fixes her with a stare in the mirror. He is arresting, insofar as any member of the male of species can be. Strong. Sparing of word, generous of deed. The unyielding metal arm of the motherland.

Widow Designation 01-425 can make use of such qualities.

“They’ll pull you out of the field permanently,” he says, gravel and concrete in his voice. “They’ll tear your organs out and kick what’s left of you in a freezer.”

She meets his eyes in the mirror. Presses her lips together to even out the color. Viscera. Life’s blood. The end of all things.

“Look at me,” she says. “I’m already out. It’s—how do you say it, in that funny little language of yours?”

“Only a matter of time,” the Winter Soldier says, hollow.

Widow Designation 01-425 hums. 

“They were always going to,” she says. “But I can still grant them a great boon. A true soldier, born and bred to serve. They won’t refuse me, once it’s known.” 

The Winter Soldier—he smiles, a small thing, and Widow Designation 01-425 chokes off the reflective tremble in her lungs at the sight.

“Could be a widow,” he says.

“Could be a clot I pass in the night,” she says. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, he is behind her, hot against her back. His hands, flesh and metal, curl around her belly. “Could be the jewel of the Red Room.”

“And you would give them that?” he says. “After everything?”

“I live to serve.”

“Bullshit.

Widow Designation 01-425 does not clench her teeth. She mastered this body—its desires, its foolish set of reflexes—long ago. But something in the well of her, something deep and low like a crawling animal, compels her to speak though she owes this specter, this _thing_ her homeland made of fire and flesh-memory, less than nothing.

“If,” she says, and swallows. “If there is to be glory for the future of our home, and our masters, then that glory must be mine to claim.” _After everything_.

“What will you think of,” he asks, “Mother Russia?” 

Unbidden, Widow-Designation 01-425 sees red lipstick like a whisper behind her eyelids. A tumble of thick brown curls. Eyes so much warmer than her own, and dimples, begging for the press of her fingers, her lips. How can she ensure a future with dimples? She opens her eyes again, and the Winter Soldier’s are an answering ice.

“I’ll make it good for you,” she says.

“Doll,” the Winter Soldier says, hands sweeping electric up to her aching breasts. “Good doesn’t even exist.”

Her blood rushes. She pushes him toward the bed and he goes, compliant like a dog. He is not as she expected, but he will still serve her purpose.

She hopes it’s a widow.

**End**


End file.
